Handkerchief

Robb carried a handkerchief in his pocket.  He rarely needed it; it was largely for me.  He married a teary girl.

When I needed it, in church or in a movie, he had one handy for me.  I needed one recently.  (Tears are fresh and plentiful these days.)  I couldn't find it.  I groped blindly in my handbag, wishing upon wishes for something to dry these streams of mascara.

And then something prompted my mind to travel down a linear path:

I took it out of my purse when we traveled to Ohio,
I wanted it with me on the plane,
I put it in my red bag,
my computer is in my red bag,
my red bag is sitting at my feet in this coffee shop. 

I reached into the big pocket of the red bag.  Sure enough: the familiar, worn linen of his handkerchief, monogrammed in the bottom right corner.

It was as if he had handed it to me once more.

"Thanks, honey," I whispered, seemingly to myself, but not to myself really at all.